58 Feelings Within
by Lying Monster
Summary: Broken beginnings can lead to beautiful mistakes. *DARK; RATED M FOR VIOLENCE, HEAVY TOPICS AND GRAPHIC MENTAL IMAGERY. NO YAOI.
1. Prologue

**Prologue.**

_Sometimes the memories still haunted him._

_Memories of times past; experiences not easily forgotten. Experiences that held him, taught him, tested him and shaped him. Experiences that scared him, damaged him, broke him and rearranged him. Experiences that human beings were never wired to forget._

_Experiences._

_Sometimes he wished things had been different. He refrained from looking in the mirror as much as he possibly could for a fear he couldn't quite place. He slept minimally for a fear that threatened to return his past experiences to him in an unkindly manner. He could never bring himself to eat a full meal for a fear that lived in the very pit of his stomach where meals were no longer welcome; something of a fear that came quietly but set in hard and took roots._

_Experiences. Some people live by them, others die by them. Experiences shape who we are - regardless of who we are - and within that simple concept lies a strange and simple beauty; a truth._

_For him, that truth was absolutely everything he despised - yet he guarded that truth. He stood in front of it as if it were a child in danger. He made it his duty to protect the innocent that were affected by that truth and every consequence that it bore._

_It had become evident in his very being._

_He had become his own worst enemy in light of a truth that saved lives as well as destroyed them. A truth that was both friend and foe. A truth composed of six letters, no more and no less; a truth that can all-too-easily be disguised as a lie._

_A choice._

_Perhaps a regret._

_Maybe a future._

_Three different options but all one in the same._

_They were all that he ever fought for; all that kept him alive. The principles to which he based his self-neglect, his apathetic viewpoints, his inability to love - principles that disallowed him to feel; for the human mind was never meant to endure the levels of pain that he repressed, the density of the memories that he held or the depths of the cuts that he concealed._

_The credibility of the lies that he created were all he had to live for._

_How was it possible to measure the pain of such a man? Was it a strain so heavy that L's back curved under all its weight? Was it an agony so terrible to leave the indelible dark circles around his eyes?_

_A champion of justice, some called him. Others called him selfish and arrogant, some even perverted - but he was none of these things. He devoted himself to merely doing what was right, and doing it again and again. He did not stop when he grew tired. He did not stop even when he grew weak. He simply continued forward for the sake of humanity and humanity alone. For the sake of the innocent._

_For the sake of a personal desperation._

_For the sake of a stumbled beginning that he just couldn't help but consider anything more than a glorified mistake._

* * *

><p><em><strong>"It is the cause, not the death, that makes the martyr."<strong>__**-Napoleon Bonaparte**_


	2. Chapter One: Regret

**Chapter One.**

Beads of rain dripped silently from the bone structure of a black umbrella, losing themselves instantly to the chaos below. Purposed but evenly placed footsteps could seldom be heard over the constant sound of vehicles passing by in the rain-washed street.

Picking his pace up slightly, the elderly man shielded his face from the rain with the broad collar of his jacket while straining to see the sidewalk ahead of him through the storm. His small, oval-shaped glasses that were perched midway up the bridge of his nose were rendered nearly useless to him due to the many droplets of water that adorned each lens. If his destination hadn't already been close, he might have considered turning back to take refuge in the church at the end of the block until the rain subsided - but the distance between him and his home was a rough several yards now.

"Bloody storm," he uttered miserably as he turned briskly into the entrance yard of a large apartment building. The whole property looked as though it had seen better years - the many wooden window frames visible from where he walked were weathered and peeling, the bricks surrounding them were chipped and graffitied in places and the stained steps that led to the front doors of the building were cracked and crumbling with age. A fountain stood in the yard not far from the steps that looked as though it hadn't been functional for at least a decade; the only water that pooled in it now was merely from the rain. These things had never bothered the man, however - for in truth, he was generously wealthy, but did not enjoy flaunting it. Living in a place like this was strangely comforting to him.

"Please… please help me…"

A sudden plea from somewhere nearby startled the man, causing him to stop dead in his tracks and scan the empty yard for the source of the voice.

"Please, my little boy…"

The man turned around, tracing the voice back to one of the pillars at the entrance of the yard. A young woman sat huddled in its shadow with a thin blanket wrapped around her bony shoulders and a tattered handbag over one arm. She seemed to be protecting something that she held tightly to her chest in attempt to shield it from the cold.

"What are you doing out here…?," the man asked firmly as he approached her shivering frame. She stared up at him through empty black eyes, and as he observed them in their hollow sockets, he knew instantly that the woman needed help.

"Come… come with me, let's get you out of this weather," he insisted kindly as he knelt down to help her stand. "You'll be alright - here, give me the child."

As the woman stood up slowly, she leaned weakly into the man for support and gently pushed the baby into his arms.

"It's okay… everything is going to be alright," he said reassuringly as he held the umbrella over her and the child, no longer paying even the slightest regard to his own state of being. "Come, now… let's just get the two of you inside."

* * *

><p>Warmth emanated from the fireplace as the elderly man knelt next to the woman who lay quietly on the couch with several blankets draped over her. Her eyes were glazed over and her speech was becoming increasingly fragmented as she attempted to speak about what had happened to her.<p>

"He left… they found him dead in his kitchen… he must have… drugged…"

She swallowed hard as though her throat was so dry that it was impairing her ability to breathe.

"I believe he wanted to die," she whispered softly as tears began to well in her eyes, "… gone… I never even… really knew him…"

The man waited patiently for her to continue.

"He would hurt me… he would hurt… him," she choked, glancing over slightly to rest her eyes on the small child that still lay wrapped in the man's arms. "I never… his own son… I never knew…"

She closed her glassy eyes, allowing the tears to run from their corners and soak into the pillow upon which she propped her head.

"But he's dead… now… but my boy," her voice quieted as if she was afraid of what she was about to say next. "He's… it's my fault, he's…"

She looked as though she might fall asleep at the close of her fragmented sentence. The man reached down and picked up a glass of water from the floor next to him.

"Drink this, miss… please, you'll feel better," he said kindly, holding the glass out to her gently. "Just sip it. Then we can continue with your story."

She looked into the man's eyes with a desperate expression, almost as if to silently apologize for something that he had no current awareness of. Her face was frightened and the man assumed that her sunken cheeks and empty eyes were indicative of either severe malnutrition or an addiction to hard drugs. He'd seen others like her in his time, and although this situation should have been no different, for some reason he couldn't help but feel as though it was. He felt void of hope when he looked at her - he could usually see a bright side somewhere in their eyes - but here there was none. Here there was only darkness.

"Please drink this, miss. I know you'll feel better," he insisted, holding the glass of water out to her firmly.

"I'm sorry… I failed what I was supposed to do," she muttered, ignoring the water completely, her words slightly slurring now. "I'm sorry…"

"Please, miss - I don't quite understand what you are trying to say," the man admitted, "but right now you just need to rest, we'll worry about everything else later. I'm sure whatever you did - or didn't do - couldn't have been all that bad."

The woman didn't reply, she simply turned her gaze again to the child.

"Your boy is just fine, I've wrapped him in a dry blanket, you don't need to worry," the man answered as if her gaze had been a verbalized question. "He will be just fine."

She didn't look reassured. She simply held her gaze to the child, whose black eyes stared directly back into her own. Her whole expression seemed to express more regret towards the young one than anything else.

"I regret… I regret you," she whispered.

Then her eyes gently closed.

"Miss," the man interjected, "I'm terribly sorry, but I'd love to hear the rest of your story. Would you be so kind as to continue?"

There was no answer.

"Miss?," he repeated, trying to keep the alarm from surfacing in his voice. "Can you hear me? Miss…?"

The woman lay still.

"Miss, please… stay with me… you never finished," he whispered, hearing his own voice falter. "Your boy… your little boy…"

He looked down at the child in his arms.

"Your little boy…," he repeated quietly as tears sprang to his own eyes. "You… you never even told me his name…"

The child looked up at the man with wide, dark eyes and a vacant expression. He looked to be no older than a year old; his raven hair was unkept and contrasted greatly with the pale tone of his skin. His eyes were black just like those of his mother and contained the same deep level of sadness.

"It's okay… it's okay," the man whispered as he lovingly brushed the hair away from the eyes of the child with his hand. "It's okay… Wammy is here for you now."

Holding the man's gaze firmly, the child made no audible sound, but held out his tiny hand in response to the man's soothing voice. His thumb and forefinger formed the simple shape of the letter 'L' - the entire form of it being no bigger than the man's thumb.

"L… well, I suppose that will work for now," he whispered.

Glancing over at the floor next to the couch where the woman's handbag lay abandoned, the man decided it would be best to check for some form of identification that would give him any leads on the woman's origin or the boy's name. Laying the child down gently on the floor next to him, he grabbed the handbag and began rifling through it - and although what he discovered next could have only been expected of the situation, it still made his heart turn over in his chest.

Shakily emptying the contents of the bag onto the carpet, he watched as several heroin needles rolled across the floor accompanied by a straw, a cloth, a metal tablespoon and a small plastic bag.

There was no identification.

* * *

><p><strong>"<strong>_**Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves - regret for the past and fear of the future**_**." **_**-Fulton Oursler**_


	3. Chapter Two: Signals

**Chapter Two.**

* * *

><p><em>Six years later.<em>

* * *

><p>"Considering the unusual number of behavioural abnormalities, I'd say it's a very strong possibility," the paediatrician explained seriously, looking away briefly to observe the young boy in the next room through the window. "To be honest with you, Mr. Wammy… his social skills are some of the poorest I've seen at his age."<p>

The raven-haired boy sat in the middle of the children's ward at the hospital, perched oddly on the flats of his feet with his thumb in his mouth and his knees drawn up to his chest. He seemed to be staring into nowhere and exhibited no reaction whatsoever to the few children playing around him.

"Well… thank you, doctor," Wammy said with a slight nod of his head. "I sincerely appreciate your help."

"What did you say the boy's name was?," the doctor asked, continuing to observe the boy curiously through the glass.

"His name is L," replied Wammy. "L Lawliet."

"Lawliet, hm… alright, we'll keep him on file here," the doctor said, scribbling something down on his clipboard before returning his gaze to the man in front of him. "If you have any other concerns, please don't hesitate to give us a call."

"Thank you again," Wammy replied earnestly as he shook the doctor's hand as a gesture of farewell before returning to the children's ward.

"L, come now," the man said kindly as he entered the noisy room. "It's time to go home."

The boy turned to face the man in reply to hearing his own name, still chewing his thumbnail absently as if he was far away with his thoughts.

"We can get ice-cream on the way back if you'd like," Wammy suggested after seeing no instantaneous reaction in the child to his initial command. He smiled as the boy immediately leapt up from his position on the floor and began to walk menially towards him.

"That's more like it," the man said, still smiling warmly to himself as he took the boy's hand in his own and they headed for the exits.

* * *

><p><em>"No, please... please don't do this, please stop..." <em>

_Foggy images faded in and out of focus before L's eyes, lit every once in a while by strange flashes of light that distracted him and filled his head with unease._

_"Please...!" _

_There were pleading screams coming from somewhere nearby, but he couldn't quite place them. He longed to move, to go towards the source of the voice, but something was holding him back. Was it shame? Was it fear? Was there something he still needed to figure out before any of this could even begin to make any sense?_

_His mind clouded. The voices grew distant but his heart began to tense. He closed his eyes._

_There were crosses, so many crosses; at the base of each one was a dark pool of red that contrasted greatly with the underlying blue grass. Omnipotent music filled the air with a chilling melody that tweaked both the calm and disturbed forks of his brain, shooting strange frequencies through his veins and into the nothingness that surrounded him. _

_It was as if he was looking at the world through two different lenses._

_Suddenly he was in the middle of a dank room in a dingy apartment. It was raining outside. A tall figure stood in a corner with his back facing the rest of the room and was silent for a while before turning abruptly to face the boy, seemingly angry at the mere existence of him. After observing the boy silently, the man ran clumsily towards him with his arms outstretched in a threatening manner. _

_The boy screamed and scrambled backwards, but the man got to him first. Wrapping his strong fingers carefully around the boy's throat, he squeezed it with a gathering pressure, glaring straight into his son's frightened eyes as a sick smile spread slowly across his face._

_"You filthy thing, you…"_

_Tears began to run down the boy's face as he struggled to breathe. He wanted to cry out for help more than anything, but he knew it was beyond his ability given the current situation and that no one would come to his aid even if he did._

_"Mum… mum, help," he managed to choke out, his voice barely audible even in the silence. _

_"Your mother doesn't hear you, boy… she's dead, dead because she birthed you," the man rasped, quivering slightly as his sick smile turned into a look of pure rage. "You're a murderer, you worthless little fuck… you don't just deserve to die; to Hell with you, you never deserved to live in the first place…"_

_Finally, the man's grip tightened on the boy's throat and punctured it._

_The last thing that L saw was his father's sinister expression of rage mixed with pure satisfaction as everything began to slip sharply and painfully away…_

…

"… NO! Mum," the boy screamed as he bolted upright in bed, desperately gripping his blankets up near his throat as his whole body convulsed with fear. "M-mum…!"

He heard footsteps walking briefly down the hall before his bedroom door opened slowly.

"L…?," Wammy's gentle voice whispered through the darkness. "What happened, son? Is everything alright…?"

"Mum…," L sobbed, staring at Wammy's silhouette in his bedroom doorway. "Daddy said I killed her… daddy said I did…"

Wammy hesitated for a moment, directing his gaze at the floor briefly before looking up at L again and proceeding to enter the room.

"It was only a bad dream," Wammy said soothingly as he clicked on the lamp and sat down next to L on the bed, rubbing his back affectionately in an attempt to calm him down.

"But, my daddy… he was… hurting me," L said between sharp gasps, gulping back tears as best he could while he spoke. "He hurt my throat…"

"L… shhh, everything is alright, you're safe… it was just a bad dream, it wasn't real," Wammy soothed, holding the shaking boy close to him while continuing to rub his back. "I'm right here, you don't need to be afraid…"

L hid his face in Wammy's arms, sobbing uncontrollably while the only person he could call family held him and spoke to him in calming tones. The man rested his chin gently on the boy's head as he continued to speak reassuringly to him while stroking his messy black hair continuously with his hand.

"Shhh… Wammy's here," he whispered, staring absently into the darkness and reflecting solemnly on the boy's brief description of the dream.

"Everything is alright, L… Wammy is here…"

* * *

><p><em><strong>"Those with the greatest awareness have the greatest nightmares."<br>****-Mahatma Gandhi**_


End file.
